  Ned Blake found himself still in a very uncertain state of mind, when he awoke at noon of the following day. After a meal which was a combination of breakfast and lunch, he set out for Dave Wilbur’s, only to be met half-way by Tommy Beals and Dick Somers with the news that Dave was sick in bed with a hard cold. “He can’t speak above a whisper,” declared Tommy, who had been admitted to the bedside of the patient. “His mother says he’s got to stay in bed all day, and I guess that’s the proper dope, if we want him to be with us for tomorrow night’s dance.” “What did you fellows find out there last night?” asked Dick. “I thought of you when I heard the rain pelting down. Did the shanty leak?” “I can’t answer that,” laughed Ned. “Dave and I didn’t enjoy the comfort of the shanty—we let the other fellow have it.” “What fellow—for the love of Mike!” cried Charlie Rogers, who had joined the group in time to hear Ned’s words. “That’s another one I can’t answer,” replied Ned quite truthfully, and he proceeded to recount in some detail the adventures of the previous night, omitting, however, all reference to his discovery of Latrobe. “I’d give a million dollars to know what this is all about!” exclaimed Rogers. “Of course, we want to keep on with our stuff, but I’d hate to get into a jam with a bunch of roughnecks.” This was exactly what Ned had feared, and he determined then and there to keep to himself—for the present at least—his knowledge of the identity of one of the “roughnecks.” Red Rogers was anything but a coward, and if he showed signs of wavering, there would be slight hope of keeping fellows like Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford in line. All the rest of that day, and much of the following, Ned devoted himself to making cautious inquiries concerning Latrobe, but beyond some evidence of the man’s unsavory reputation little or nothing could be learned. “I’ll take a chance on tonight’s dance anyhow,” soliloquized Ned. “After it’s over, I’ll tell the boys what I know and let them decide what to do.” Saturday night found the youthful population of Truesdell on tiptoe with expectation. Everyone who had attended the first “haunted” dance was eager to learn what new thrill lay in store for them, and those who had not been present on the opening night were doubly anxious to make up for their unfortunate omission by taking an especially active part in this second festivity. A considerable number of older people joined the crowd, ostensibly as chaperones for their daughters, but actually with a secret desire to learn what it was all about. The boys were early on the scene, including Dave Wilbur, who had recovered sufficiently to do his part although his voice sounded not much unlike the drawling croak of a bullfrog. “Whew!” gasped Tommy Beals, as he stood just inside the front door of the Coleson house and ran his handkerchief around inside his wilted collar. “I’ve taken in ninety-five admissions and answered a couple of hundred questions about ghosts, and the crowd is still coming!” “I’m hoping we have enough eats and drinks for this mob,” remarked Wat Sanford, who, in Sam’s absence, was preparing the refreshments. “If Fatty wilts just taking tickets and answering questions, I pity him when he starts passing out ice cream.” “I wish we had fixed up a few good ghost stunts for tonight,” said Charlie Rogers, as he stood beside Ned watching the couples pour in at the front door. “This crowd is all keyed up for a wild time and I’d hate to see ’em disappointed—as they will be if nothing happens.” “What’s worrying me is the fear that too much may happen,” replied Ned, anxiously. “Meaning what?” queried Rogers. “Well,” resumed Ned, “you and Fatty got a pretty good-sized scare the night you were out here, and Dick and I saw enough to keep us wondering ever since.” “Yes, I was scared all right,” admitted Rogers, “—just the two of us here alone, you know—but with all this gang here you don’t think that—” and Rogers paused for want of just the right words to express his doubt. “I don’t know what to think,” was the sober reply. “The whole thing seems impossible—and yet it has happened. One thing I’m sure of: there isn’t going to be room much longer on these premises for us and for whoever or whatever else is trying to occupy them. As you say, Red, this crowd has been led to expect some weird stuff and yet it might easily be thrown into a panic, which would mean the end of things for us. You and Fatty and Dick and I have seen enough to make us certain that something more than child’s play is going on around here. What it is or what it will lead to, I can’t even guess, but I’ll admit I’m worried.” “Me, too,” grumbled Dick Somers, who had joined the other two in time to hear Ned’s words. “Why, hang it! somebody might take a crazy notion to blow up the whole shebang—same as Eli Coleson blew up his old farm house when he wanted to build this one.” “Coleson!” muttered Rogers under his breath. “You don’t suppose—” “Come on, you fellows!” interrupted Jim Tapley, striking a chord on the piano. “It’s eight o’clock. Let’s tune up and get going!” The dance was quickly under way, and for several hours the whirl of gaiety continued with nothing more ghostly to offer than the painted balloons and black paper cats. As midnight drew near, the orchestra concluded a peppy fox-trot and made ready to close with the usual wailing syncopation of “Home, Sweet Home.” “I guess you had your worry for nothing, Ned,” whispered Charlie Rogers. “In fact, the thing has been almost too tame. Don’t you think so?” “Maybe it has,” began Ned, “but just the same I—” His words were cut short by a shriek which arose from a group on the porch. Half a dozen frightened girls came plunging in through the doorway, which was instantly jammed with excited people, some making frantic efforts to get inside and away from something, while others struggled in an attempt to get out and see what had happened. For several minutes confusion reigned, but the braver spirits who had been investigating outside soon returned with the report that they could find nothing to cause alarm. Of the group which had been upon the porch, only a few claimed actually to have seen anything, but these were unshaken in their statement that a shadowy figure had appeared at the corner of the house nearest to the woods. Charlie Rogers and Tommy Beals exchanged a half-frightened glance, suggestive of their belief in this story; but of the dancers, nearly everybody considered it either an hallucination or at most a joke, and as the strains of the final number arose, the dance was resumed and carried to its completion without further interruption. The foremost of the departing crowd had reached the line of parked cars and the rest were streaming out across the porch when their gay chatter was silenced by a sudden cry. “There it is again! Look! Look! There, by the corner of the house!” All eyes turned in the direction indicated and saw outlined in the dimness a shadowy figure standing motionless. For perhaps five seconds nobody spoke or moved; then an occupant of one of the automobiles switched on a headlight and the vivid glare disclosed the form of a man with a long white beard who bore upon his shoulder what appeared to be a pickax. As the blinding light flashed upon it, the apparition threw up an arm as if to shield its eyes, took a step forward, and dropping the pick from its shoulder, struck it into the ground. At the first cry of alarm, Ned Blake had rushed out upon the porch closely followed by Dick Somers, and as the weird figure raised its pick for a second swing, both boys sprang from the porch and dashed directly toward the ghostly visitant. For an instant the figure seemed to hesitate; then it turned swiftly and vanished round the corner of the house. Ned Blake and Dick Somers turned the corner in a breathless rush. Before them lay the open stretch of sand, extending from the end of the house to the fringe of bushes some thirty yards distant. Above the line of trees the late moon hung in the eastern sky, shedding a soft light by which the boys saw clearly the stretch of sand, the fringing bushes, the foundation wall of the house—and nothing else. “It’s gone!” gasped Ned, staring with unbelieving eyes at the space before him. “Yes, but where?” cried Dick. “We weren’t five seconds behind when it turned this corner, and there isn’t cover enough between here and the woods for a rabbit to hide in!” Emboldened by the example of Ned and Dick, several of the men and boys came hurrying forward. Somebody produced a flashlight by means of which a careful search of the vicinity was made but without result. Borrowing the light, Ned made a minute examination of the ground along the foundation wall. The surface was littered with fragments of slate from the roof, but ten feet from the corner of the house a bare patch of sand showed amid the debris and upon this small yellow area a faint mark caught Ned’s eye. With a quick sweep of his hand he effaced the impression and after a few minutes of further search, returned the flashlight to its owner. “Of course it’s all a hoax,” declared a gentleman, who had kept well in the background while the search was in progress. “That’s right,” agreed a second, “I guess those two lads had some hand in it—else they wouldn’t have rushed forward the way they did.” “Well, if it was a trick, I’ll call it a clever one and mighty well carried out,” remarked another, as he returned to his car when the hunt had finally been abandoned. This seemed to be the general opinion among the guests as they slowly dispersed. Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford had accepted invitations to ride home with friends and made a hasty departure, leaving the other boys to lock up the house and return in Dave Wilbur’s flivver. As the last of the departing cars went honking down the drive, Ned Blake turned to his four companions. “Fellows,” he began in a voice that betrayed his suppressed excitement, “I found something out there at the end of the house that I didn’t mention at the time!” “What was it?” asked Beals. “It was a footprint!” replied Ned. “Yeah, I saw a hundred of ’em,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “Half the dance crowd walked all over that stretch of sand.” “The footprint I saw wasn’t made by a dancing shoe,” replied Ned. “It was made by a rubber sole.” “That’s what we found outside Sam’s window!” cried Dick. “And as nearly as I could see with the flashlight, it was a print of the same shoe,” was Ned’s calm response. “Whew! If that’s a fact, why I feel like apologizing to Sam!” mumbled Tommy. “I don’t wonder he was scared!” “What do you make of it, Ned?” asked Charlie Rogers. Ned Blake turned and walked to the door to gaze with troubled eyes out upon the moonlit strip of sand, beyond which the line of scrubby oaks lay dim and shadowy. In a moment he again faced the group who were watching him curiously. “Fellows, there’s something I’ve got to tell you before we go any further with this business.” Ned paused as if to choose his words and continued. “We’ve been trying to find the answer to two questions, namely, who and why. The night Dave and I watched the old road I settled the first question, and the answer is—Latrobe!” For a few minutes after this disclosure, the excited questioning kept Ned busy recounting such meager facts as were in his possession. “I don’t need to tell you fellows that any business we may try to carry on against Latrobe’s wishes is likely to be hard going—if not actually dangerous.” was Ned’s final comment. “What do you propose?” asked Rogers. Ned’s answer was prompt. “Somebody started something out here a few minutes ago. I’m wondering how many of us are game to finish out the night right here and see what else may happen.” “Count on me for one,” was Dick’s quick reply. Rogers and Beals, after an exchange of questioning glances, declared their willingness to remain. “Oh, all right. I’ll stick around with you,” croaked Dave Wilbur, “that is, I will if I can stay inside, but when it comes to another night of camping on the cold, cold ground, there’s nothing doing.” “That’s all right, Dave,” agreed Ned. “We’ll make you inside sentry,” and without further loss of time, Wilbur set about arranging a row of chairs upon which he stretched his lanky frame. “Now, fellows,” continued Ned, “this is what I propose: Red and Fatty will hide in that clump of oaks beyond the driveway and watch the front and west end of the house. Dick and I will guard the rear side and the east end. If either party sees or hears anything suspicious, follow it up and yell a plenty if help is needed. We’ll try to capture this rubber-soled ghost, if he shows himself again.” |
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